


The Sleeper

by wearemany



Series: The Sleeper [1]
Category: Entourage
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-24
Updated: 2005-01-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearemany/pseuds/wearemany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is the kind of shit you pay those guys for."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleeper

**Author's Note:**

> The sleeper: a piece of furniture that can be opened up into a bed; a spy or saboteur planted in an enemy country who lives there as a law-abiding citizen until activated by a prearranged signal; an unexpected hit.

You close the door behind you and Ari says, "Where's Eric?"  
  
You shrug. "Around, I think." He doesn't look like he believes you. "I think he told Johnny he'd go along to an audition or something."  
  
"What, he doesn't have enough to do trying to run your life?"  
  
Ari could yell down the hall and get Johnny's schedule, but he doesn't have any reason to think you're lying. You're still in the game. You put on your game face. "You're cute when you're angry," you say. It worked on the girl last week who was about to throw a drink at you.  
  
He rolls his eyes. "You don't pay me to be cute. You pay me to eat people alive and paint your name on the wall with their blood. You pay me to be a shark."  
  
You lay back on his couch, red leather soft and warm against your cheek. This seems like the kind of furniture that belongs in a shrink's office. You've never played a scene in a shrink's office before, though, so you aren't sure. You turn onto your side and stare at Ari until he sits back in his chair and crosses his arms. "I like sharks," you say.  
  
"I like rats," he says. "But not the kind they've got out here. LA rats are all bulimic. I like the big motherfuckers in New York, the kind that run through the subway tunnels and right after the express flies by you can smell their ratty, stinky fur burning on the third rail." You trail your fingers along the edge of the cushion. "What are you doing, Vince?"  
  
"Stretching." You kept going to yoga even after whatshername went wherever because you like being able to bend over backwards so far you can almost kiss the floor. It's still a reassuring thing, conquering your own body. You rock up and leap onto your feet, walking a straight line over to the door.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Just wondering if this door has a lock or if you make Emily stand guard while you're, you know, knocking a piece off." You look back over your shoulder and smile slowly.  
  
"I don't do that shit in the office."  
  
"C'mon." You wink. You thought you'd feel like an asshole doing that, but Ari just scrunches up his eyebrows and looks like he needs to scratch something. "You can tell me."  
  
"Only after hours." You push the button in the middle of the chrome handle and it makes a dull thunking noise. "Vinnie, boy, what's going on?"  
  
You turn back around, slow, and think about Eric admitting once how guys look hot when they move like strippers. Girl strippers. You walk a little more loose-limbed than usual and lounge back onto the couch. "Come here," you say, jerking your head to point at the seat next to you.  
  
Ari gets up and comes over there, and you get that scared flutter at the base of your spine that you think means _power_. It only happens when you ask for something you don't think you're going to get. There's not much left you don't know you can have. It makes you shiver, and to stop shaking you put your hand on his thigh and stare hard at the center of his forehead.  
  
He makes this scoffing noise, not a laugh but a noise of disbelief. He doesn't pull away, though. "This is a joke, isn't it," he says. Then he clears his throat and leans in. "Vinnie, let me tell you a little secret." You don't move. You'll let him come to you. "This is the kind of shit you pay those guys for."  
  
You raise your eyebrows. "I don't pay anyone for this."  
  
"If you're gonna humiliate yourself to win a bet, buddy, you make one of them do it. Did you miss junior high entirely?"  
  
Ari's tie is cobalt blue, a Crayon color against a crisp white shirt. He's not wearing his jacket. You touch the tie with one finger. "I've seen you looking at me."  
  
Ari bats your hand away. "Everybody looks at you."  
  
It's true. And your spine's still tingling and Ari hasn't moved very much at all. He's still waiting to see what you're doing. You stand up, pushing off so he realizes his knee was still touching yours. There are stupid little toys on his desk and you pick each one up, playing with them, sticking one that looks like a blue dolphin swizzle stick in your mouth. "You don't want me blowing some guy who does my makeup, do you?" You don't look behind you, keep talking at his desk blotter. "I'd end up in the fucking Star or something. I mean, that doesn't sound like it'd be very good for my career."  
  
When you turn around, he's staring at you with his Psycho-face. That's what Eric calls it. He really does look like he might kill you, but all he says is, "You want to blow me?"  
  
You smile. "I mean, I like you, Ari, but I don't let just anybody in my pants. No matter what you've heard."  
  
Ari stands up and frowns, exhales through his nose. That's what E calls his Rocky-face. "What I've heard," he says, thoughtfully. "You know, I haven't heard anything about this. You like to suck cock, baby, I would've heard. You bang a go-go girl in the handicapped stall, I get the bat signal. I never heard one whisper of you being stupid enough to pull shit like this."  
  
His face gets really still, like one of the fake heads they used for the morgue scene in Head On, and the tingling in your spine is replaced by a cold, dead fear.  
  
"Let me tell you, the last person you want to fuck around with -- I mean, the last person you want to take for a ride -- the last person you want to play a motherfucking joke of these motherfucking proportions on is your goddamned pussy-loving shark of an agent."  
  
There's a fine line of sweat on Ari's forehead. You've never seen him sweat, so you don't know what E would call this face. You take two steps and kneel in front of him. It's just a role like everything else. It's just a game. "You scared, Ari? You sound scared. I never heard a guy so scared of getting his dick sucked."  
  
"I have high standards," Ari says, but it's a weak delivery and neither of you buys it. "You're not the best at everything, my boy, I can tell you that right now."  
  
He makes a squeaking sound as you ease his zipper down, but swallows the noise when you lean back. "Maybe you better show me first, then," you say.  
  
"Oh no. No."  
  
"C'mon. You do me, I'll do you." That line usually works, too, and you're smiling and sitting up on your knees when his phone rings, a sharp crazy noise like a school bell. You put your hand on his thigh.  
  
"No fucking calls!" he yells at the door. "That phone shoved down your throat is going to be your last fucking meal, goddamnit!"  
  
You put your other hand on his other knee and duck your chin as you smile. "C'mon."  
  
He puts his hands on your shoulders. "Why don't you go home to that oversized playpen I've spent the last year breaking my back to buy and suck off your little boyfriend if you want it so much?"  
  
You stand up and stare down at him. "Don't talk about E like that, man." You put your hand on your jeans, because why the fuck not at this point. And anyway you and E have a bet, and you're not going to forfeit when you are this close.  
  
You get the top button open and have your thumb on the zipper when he says, "This was all his idea, wasn't it? Fucking Eric." You yank the fly open and reach into your underwear, wondering if talking dirty while he does this is more embarrassing for him or you.  
  
He puts his hands in the air and rolls his eyes violently. "Stop it, stop it stop it. I'll jerk you off, man, but that's it. I don't even go down on my wife."  
  
You put your hands on your hips. "I'm prettier than your wife."  
  
"If Lindsay Lohan herself was standing right there in front of me where you are and I had to eat her pussy or die, I'd still swallow a pack of razor blades before I'd get one pubic hair in my mouth. Do I look like a bitch? I don't lick anybody's cooch, not even yours."  
  
You shrug. "You can give me a handjob instead, I don't mind."  
  
Ari sighs and rolls up his sleeves. "Next week when you are not on whatever fucking crazy substance you are on right now, we are gonna have a talk about this, I swear to god, Vince. This shit will ruin your career." He shakes out his wrists and cracks his knuckles. You shift your weight impatiently.  
  
When the back of his hand brushes against your stomach, you burst out laughing. You just can't help it.  
  
"You motherfucker," he says, and hits you in the stomach. You're bent over, hysterical, maybe in pain but you can't tell because this is the best fucking bet ever. "It was Eric's idea, wasn't it," he says again, getting up and rummaging through his desk.  
  
"Yeah," you say, tears streaming down your face. You count to ten and try to slow your breathing, finally stretching back upright and shoving yourself back in your pants.  
  
"That little cunt," Ari says.  
  
"Hey," you say. "Don't call him --"  
  
Ari hits the intercom button harder than he punched you. "Where, Emily, where is the goddamned, that clear shit you put on your hands to kill shit?"  
  
"Second drawer," the phone squawks. Ari rips its cord out.  
  
"He dared me, Ari, I had to." You summon every ounce of talent you've ever been told you have, thinking about how contrite you'd feel if you'd run over his puppy instead of made him put his hand down your pants. "No hard feelings, right?"  
  
Ari collapses in his chair and kicks a paperweight off the edge of his desk. He starts to scrub his face with his hands and then sniffs his fingers, screwing up his mouth.  
  
Dead. Puppy. Contrite. You run your hands through your hair and smile.  
  
He sighs. "What'd you win?"  
  
*  
  
The guesthouse door falls shut with a slap. It's weighted weird and almost took your bare foot off once. Now you try to remember to wear shoes.  
  
"Congratulations," Eric calls out from the bedroom.  
  
You lean against the wall. "How'd you know I would return triumphant?"  
  
"You told me about a hundred times there was no way you were coming home empty-handed." Eric's hair is wet, dripping on his shoulders. He pulls a green polo shirt over his head and the fabric gets soaked in spots so it looks like he ran through the sprinklers fully clothed.  
  
"How'd you know?"  
  
"How do you think?"  
  
Eric hands you a beer from the mini-bar. "Ari called you."  
  
"Yeah, I just sat through fifteen rounds of homosexual panic on speakerphone."  
  
"Mad?"  
  
He laughs and shakes out his hair. "Furious. I think my favorite part was when he said, 'You're not fit to fold Vince's laundry, let alone suck his motherfucking cock.'"  
  
"Ouch." You flop down on E's couch, which for no reason you can figure out is the most comfortable place to sit in the house. Or even near the house.  
  
He slumps down next to you. "You're crazy, you know that? That man is one of the most powerful people in this town and you just humiliated him for fun. Because you were bored."  
  
"We, not me. And it wasn't just for fun. I had a bet to win." You rest your head on Eric's shoulder and he elbows you in the ribs. You sit up straight. "You know, he's really not that bad looking, E."  
  
"Yeah, how far did you let it go?"  
  
You take his hand and put it on your crotch. He pulls it away and starts laughing.  
  
"Are you sure that counts?"  
  
"He said he was gonna jerk me off. I just couldn't do it."  
  
"I thought he wasn't that bad looking --"  
  
"C'mon," you say, and put his hand back. "I won, didn't I?"  
  
Eric looks at you sideways and you can't help smiling at him.  
  
"He try to kiss you?" Eric is squinting a little and his hand is hot on your jeans, even if he's not pressing or moving at all.  
  
"You gonna defend my honor now?" In tenth grade, when this girl went around telling the senior boys that you tried to fuck her little sister, E bitched her out in front of half the school.  
  
He stares at you, freckles on his nose dancing around as he wiggles it, making up his mind.  
  
There's no point pulling a face on him. He's the one who helped you memorize crazy shit to go with all the major emotions in a script, so you could call it up whenever you needed. You put your hand on his arm instead.  
  
"I just don't much feel like swapping spit with that scumbag," he says.  
  
You kiss him and when his eyes are closed you let yourself try out a little, because you've gotten a little obsessed with watching kissing in movies lately, because you can't tell if it's possible to kiss in character or whether people kiss on screen like they do in real life. You hold E's face in your hands kiss like you're giving a speech, like you've saved the day and gotten the girl.  
  
You pull back a little and he gasps. Then his eyes flutter open and you know he's got your number. "Needs work," he says, breathing hard.  
  
You lean back against the armrest, just enough to remind him you won and he owes you.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," he says. "I know why you're here."  
  
"I mean, if you don't --"  
  
He waves you off and opens your pants. "I knew what I was getting myself into." He tugs your hips down, scoots back and bends over you. He never kneels on the ground, and you've never done it anywhere but the couch. You don't know if his bed is comfortable.  
  
His mouth is warm and wet and you wonder what face you make when you're getting a blowjob. This is what you should think about when you have to look satisfied. "You like this, don't you?" you ask, and only when he slaps your thigh a little do you realize how it sounded. "I mean you don't have some kind of thing, some issue with going down on people?"  
  
Eric takes his mouth away. "Do you want me to talk right now?" You shake your head.  
  
"I just mean, you like eating out chicks, right?"  
  
He pulls back. "Are you having some kind of freak-out here?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes, I like fucking girls, and so do you, and if we have to talk about this maybe we should talk about you and your asinine dares and bets, because \--"  
  
"No," you say, and lift your hips a little. "I don't want to talk."  
  
"You can talk," Eric says, "just quit asking me things you want me to answer."  
  
"You give the best blowjobs in the world," you say. It's an apology and also the truth, and it doesn't require any response as far as you can tell. He hums a little and you close your eyes, sinking into the cushions. "Best. Really, man, you're so fucking good at this it's unreal. I'd never have let Ari anywhere near my cock, not for a million dollars, because you've fucking spoiled me."  
  
He laughs a little, shimmery vibrations against your skin and you fucking love Eric, you do, and not just because he sucks like a pornstar, better than a pornstar, that Playboy bunny you nailed last month couldn't blow you for shit. You hear yourself moan, babbling shit about how good it is and yeah, right there, and you don't even care that you sound like an idiot because you never have to think twice before you say things to Eric. He's never once thrown this back in your face.  
  
"Yeah," you groan, and say, "I love that you, I mean, you don't have some kind of power trip about going down on people, it's not about anything."  
  
He mumbles as he licks your balls, something like "yeah, you should try it sometime," but you can't really tell because then he's swallowing you down again.  
  
It's so good that you reach out blindly and only remember at the last second that he's not some groupie who won't complain if you pull her hair. You wrap your fingers around his shoulders instead, thick cotton under your hands, just rough enough to play off the softness of his lips, and you rub his neck a little, a light massage because he's working hard, he works so hard for you. Your fingers slip under the collar of his shirt and his skin is hot and shocking to touch, smooth everywhere like a girl, bone sliding under skin as he moves on you. You push your hand down the front of his shirt and come good and hard.  
  
He's holding himself up over your lap like he might do a push-up, trying to catch his breath. You wipe sweat off your face and say, "Come up here." You sit up a little and tuck him under your arm, wedged between you and the back of the sofa.  
  
"You got a power thing about it or something?" he asks, mouth open.  
  
"No," you say. You don't think you do. "It's just hard to tell sometimes with girls if they're really liking it." You shrug. "It's easier to do something I know I'm good at, you know?"  
  
He smiles against your t-shirt. "You really think a girl's gonna tell you you're bad in bed, Vince?"  
  
"Well --" You sigh.  
  
"You can blow me," he says. "I'll tell you if you got any natural talent."  
  
You kiss him instead, tilting up his chin and trying not to think too hard about it, not to act. Then you sit back, licking your lips, thinking about it.  
  
"It's cool, man," he says. He shakes his head.  
  
You work your hand into his pants and it only takes a dozen strokes to finish him off. He mouths your neck when he comes. He stays there about thirty seconds and then he's pushing up and off, climbing over you and hitting his shin on the coffee table and cursing like the kid who taught you the word "fuck" back on the playground.  
  
You pull up your pants and find your shoes under the couch. "Where you going?" you call after him.  
  
"Shower," he yells.  
  
You let yourself out, easing the door shut and picking your way across the yard. You all used to take the bus down to Long Island City late at night and sneak onto the empty Silvercup studios, Turtle keeping watch for the security guard. You'd stand in big empty warehouses and tell E how you were going to be a star, and he'd say of course you were, you were too smart to get stuck in a shitty apartment in Queens hoping for something better. No, you always said, I'm just pretty. You're the smart one.

 

**Author's Note:**

> My entourage: Jamie, Glace and Sinead. Vince, Eric and anything that comes out of Jeremy Piven's mouth, on- or off-screen, do not belong to me.


End file.
